


Booksmart

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (2020), The Great (TV Show), The Great - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depication of injuries, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I love this show, Mentioned violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: You've developed a special bond with Orlo, the only man in court who'd spend his evenings teaching a servant to read. Revolution is in the air, and when Orlo discovers you've been beaten, something has to change.
Relationships: Count Orlo / Female Reader, Count Orlo / Reader, Count Orlo x Female Reader, Count Orlo x Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 75





	Booksmart

Each day was made infinitely more tolerable by the knowledge of how you’d spend your nights. Not fucking, or napping, or getting black-out drunk in the servant’s chambers. No, you got to spend your time with Orlo. Sweet, kind Orlo.

You’d been terrified of the man when you first met – the brains behind Peter’s empire, the chess master who was always playing his own agenda, watching the court’s debauchery from a corner, stone cold sober. He’d caught you sneaking into the palace’s little-used library, the Count standing still in the shadows as you crept in, trying to steal a book you could possibly hope to read. Months in the palace, the centre of knowledge in Russia, and you could still barely read a word. It was infuriating.

When the Count had emerged from the bookcases, you’d muffled a shriek. You feared the end of your livelihood, or worse. Servants were whipped within an inch of their lives for crimes far less than sneaking into a private library. Against all the odds, he’d smiled softly through your stammering explanation.

“All I want is to learn a few words. So I might… enjoy these stories. I’m sorry.”

He’d appraised you for a moment, apparently considering you to be sincere, and gently taken the ancient book from your hands.

“You can’t read?”

“No.”

shame rose pink onto your face, or being ignorant, and for wanting to learn. It was above your standing, you knew.

“Well then, someone should teach you.”

Nights had passed since you first sounded out the title of a poorly-chosen Trediakovsky poetry collection, the Count insisting you come back again and again. He took great pride in how you’d learnt under his tutelage, and you were always grateful for his freely-given help.

All that weight on his shoulders, the shifting sands beneath his feet, and he was rarely even late to an evening lesson. The court was tense – everything had been up in the air since that damn printing press Catherine had insisted on, and you grew more and more accustomed to him leaving notes in the library apologising for his absence.

It was difficult to mind, when you imagined him being late for an audience with Peter, or running from a banquet, just to scribble and apology on a re-used scrap of parchment. Whether it was with an apology or actual attendance, he never left you waiting.

The same could be said for very few others in his palace.

Kooky or not, Elizabeth was brutal to work for. In your years as her maidservant, you had grown convinced she was far more manipulative and blood-thirsty than anyone gave her credit for. In fact, she’d insisted on watching as you were beaten, inspecting the bloodied marks on your back herself, with cruel, picking fingers.

It wasn’t your fault her stupid comb had broken. Even if you enjoyed how the squawked as the tiny pain of tugging had been inflicted on her scalp. The memory would be funny in future, you were certain, but the deep gashes on your back still stung. The vodka poured into them would save you from infection, but had worsened the agony you felt tenfold.

You paused at a darkened window, squinting to check the redness of your face had subsided from your tears. It was hard to tell, but your skin looked alright, less puffy than a few hours ago. The women in the servants’ quarters had told you to get it together, given you a little vodka, and loosened your bodice fastenings a little to take the pressure off your wounds.

 _All fine_ , you told yourself.

You desperately hoped he’d be there tonight. You need a distraction from the stinging, the anger you felt towards the woman you dressed and bathed every day. The knowledge things weren’t much better outside the walls of the palace kept you here, but it didn’t much quell the resentment you felt for the higher ups in the court.

The library door creaked open under your hands, and you darted inside. There was rarely anyone here, aside from yourself or Orlo, but occasionally Catherine would visit of late. It unnerved you a little, how fond she seemed of Orlo, and this space.

She wasn’t there today, and you let yourself exhale with relief.

But then, neither was Orlo.

You sighed.

No note.

You looked around, keeping your back ramrod straight to keep your injuries undisturbed, but there wasn’t a single scrap of parchment on the dusty surfaces, nothing to indicate Orlo wouldn’t be coming.

But it was late.

You were late.

Maybe he’d finally given up on you.

You tried not to be upset. Orlo’s absence was just another thing on the list which made today intolerable, and he certainly didn’t owe you anything. The Count had been distant lately, but you’d believed him when he promised he was busy.

He’d taught you a lot, in gentle tones and a patience unparalleled in the court, both above and within the servant’s quarters. It felt like a little club, sometimes. The few of you who loved to read and write, and you were slowly making your way there. He’d wink as he snuck you books to take back to the servant’s quarters. Philosophy he adored, stories read out on cold nights, even the occasional romance he’d sheepishly suggest. You loved it.

It was fine, if he wanted to leave. You could keep learning without him now. You were far past agonisingly sounding out simple letters. Even though you still mouthed the words as you read, you were improving. Orlo always smiled when you did that: read silently while your lips were moving. It embarrassed you when you caught yourself, but he’d laugh, promising it wasn’t a bad thing or a sign of ineptitude.

He seemed to like it.

The book you’d been reading was left atop a shelf, with a previous note from Orlo holding your page. You plucked it from its hiding spot, lighting a candle to cast enough light to read, and promised yourself just a few pages. Being caught here with Orlo was one thing, but being walked in upon reading books alone? That was a death sentence for someone of your standing.

You’d once joked about claiming to be his concubine, if the pair of you were caught together, and then panicked when Orlo’s face darkened. You’d ducked your head with embarrassment, having simply hoped to make him laugh, and determined you must have used the wrong word. Served you right, trying to meet his wit.

Books held such a compelling grip on you, an escape, a way to leave your body, your standing. You could imagine yourself somewhere else. The pain in your feet from working all day, the pain in your back from the beating, it was all forgotten as time escaped you. You’d far exceeded your ‘few pages’ when the door slammed open, making you wince as you jumped and curled backwards.

It was pointless to hide, your candle – now dripping wax onto its holder – would give you away instantly. All you could do was hope it was...

“You ought to be careful!”

“Orlo!”

You made yourself more visible from the door, waving him over. You heard his footsteps across the creaking floor, his silhouette approaching in the darkened room.

“You don’t want to get caught in here,” Orlo warned, words empty of threat.

“I know. I just got… absorbed.” It was hard to hide the exhaustion in your voice, how deflated you felt.

He seemed in similarly poor spirits, on edge even more than normal. Which was saying something.

Orlo came to sit next to you, forced close by your hiding spot. You could feel his thigh against your own.

“I get it. I need that too, sometimes.”

He looked over the page you were reading, smiling with approval. It was complex, and you were over half-way through the text. One of his recommendations, something he’d read in the evening, devouring each page with enthusiasm. You couldn’t wait to discuss the ideas with him, to see where you clashed and (more likely) agreed.

“I’m so proud of you, you know.”

“Really?”

You knew that was proud, somewhere. But you’d never imagined hearing the words so plainly from his mouth. You wondered if something was really, irreparably wrong.

“I’m sorry I’m late today. There’s something afoot in the court and…”

You didn’t interrupt him as he trailed off, aware that he had very few trustworthy ears on these grounds.

“It’s just a lot. I wish I could tell you more.”

“It’s okay.”

It really was. You couldn’t hope to understand the pressure he was under, even as you worked hard for you own job every day. You’d come to understand Orlo’s privilege in court was hard-won, and harder-kept. His influence and wealth came at a high cost. With every banquet you served, you grew less and less jealous of him, and the mockery Peter made of him.

He brushed it off, but you could tell some of it cut to the bone. He didn’t have the callous, thick skin Peter’s other confidants developed.

Neither did you.

You didn’t want any of the knowledge that put him at risk. You couldn’t spin plates as well as he could. You were just happy to let him vent, never wanting more than Orlo would give.

You put the book aside, under your feet, wincing at the pulling on your broken skin. Orlo didn’t move, staring into the darkness of the bookshelves ahead of him.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, but you caught the tremble of his lip. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed his hand, pulling it onto your lap and clasping it between your own.

“I’m sorry, I should be helping you with reading– ”

“It’s okay.”

“You barely even need me anymore,” he mumbled.

You’d never heard him so dejected. You squeezed his hand in your lap. He needed you as much as you needed his help.

“Of course I do. I can’t even write yet!”

You fought not to wince as he tentatively rested his head on your shoulder. This was more touch than you’d had with the man in the countless months you’d known each other, and you liked it. He smelt good, like old books and rosewater.

“I wonder what your handwriting looks like,” he mused, “I’d love to find out.”

“You will.” You promised firmly.

He didn’t reply.

The contact was wonderful, the warmth of his touch drawing you in, comforting you after the chill of the library, but the pulling on your back was agony. You tried to be subtle as you shrugged him off, exhaling from pain, but he didn’t seem to understand. The pain was getting too much.

“Can you get off, quickly,” you started, and Orlo scrambled to get away.

Shit. You hadn’t meant to discourage him. He snatched his hand back, staring at the ground in horror.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Now free from pain, you smiled at his awkwardness.

“No it’s fine, I’m just a bit achy. Bad day.”

“You should get that looked at. I’ve heard of a doctor who practices massage, he could –”

He trailed off, meeting your eye sheepishly.

Right.

You were a servant.

You hated when he was reminded of it. In this room, for a few hours, you could feel like equals, until the bright candelabras outside the doors revealed your pale servants’ robes, and Orlo couldn’t be seen with you. Back to reality. To servitude.

“It’s fine, it just needs a few days.”

“Do you want me to…”

Those inky fingers, his gentle demeanour, you rather _did_ want him to do _something_ to you. But the nature of your injury was slightly beyond his loose understanding of massage, sadly. And certainly nothing you wanted to tell him about.

Orlo interrupted himself.

“I really don’t think we’ll get any reading done today.”

“No. It’s a little late,” you smiled. “But it’s alright. Another day?”

“I’m actually rather in the mood for a drink.”

You didn’t read his invitation as such until he stood, and held his hands out to you. You got to your feet with his help, feeling a slight thrill by his gentlemanly behaviour. You’d never walked the corridors together before, but you hoped the late hour and the huge banquet had most of the palace either occupied or asleep.

Orlo held the door for you. So enamoured by his politeness, you forgot about your back.

“Shit!”

“Hm?”

“You’re bleeding!”

 _Shit_.

He didn’t let go of your elbow until you were through the doors to his apartments, creating a flurry of activity as he called for a manservant, a maid, _anyone._

“Please, calm down,” you begged. “I made a mistake and I got beaten for it. It’s fine.”

Out of the corner of your eye you saw his manservant, a friend of yours from the quarters, pause.

Orlo’s panic was chilling, freezing over, turning into something else entirely. For the first time since you’d met, you backed away from him. He was scaring you.

“Warm water and bandages,” he spat out. “And vodka.”

The manservant moved, and you were alone again, wondering what the hell Orlo was planning to do.

“It’s really nothing,” you began, drawing his intense glare. “It happens every day.”

“Not to you.”

You wanted to bite back. Ask if it was okay that it happened to other servants. But your words felt too small, like they didn’t belong in the grandeur of his space.

His rooms weren’t as extravagant as Elizabeth’s, but they were certainly luxurious. Curiosities, book, artefacts from all across the world adorned the walls, but display cases. A space meticulously ordered by a diligent record keeper; the tidiness only disrupted by a desk, messy and stacked high with scrolls and blotting paper. You could see his familiar handwriting on every page, and you longed to go over there and take it all in.

Instead, your feet felt frozen to the spot. Orlo was pacing.

“Fucking Elizabeth. Hate the woman. I don’t know why Peter likes her so much.”

“She’s his aunt,” you regretted the words the moment he heard them, spinning on a heel to face you.

“What was it? That you did? Leave a _wrinkled quilt_?”

“A broken comb.”

“Fuck me.”

He circled you, and you wondered how badly the back of your dress was spotted with blood. The mere thought of scrubbing it clean made your broken skin ache.

“Do you mind if I…”

His fingers reached for the shoulders of your dress, before dancing away, and you covered the buttons on your chest protectively.

“Orlo, I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Helping you.”

Suddenly, he was in front of you again, following his servant through previously-closed doors. Leading you to his bedroom. To stand in front of his grand four-poster bed, complete with silks, and bedside tables stacked with yet more books and papers. You felt like a trespasser, an intruder.

The servant hid it well from Count Orlo, but you caught his curious looks as he set down the things Orlo had requested. You could only shake your head at him.

“The wounds have already been disinfected…” you began.

“Well if they’re bleeding through your dress, they clearly still need attention.” He spat. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“It’s not your business.”

“You are my business. You are my favourite person in this damn palace right now, and I am not having you die because some old bat has knotted hair.”

Despite everything, you laughed. He cracked a smile.

“I’m not going to die, Orlo.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. Now, let me see.”

He dismissed the servant with a flick of his hand, looking away as you unbuttoned the bosom of your dress, freeing the material until your waist. You peeled it off cautiously, crying out as it clung to your skin.

“Help, please.”

Keeping his gaze averted, Orlo circled you, his fingers replacing yours in prying the blood-soaked material from your ripped skin. You couldn’t see the injury, but it must have been bad, judging from his reaction.

Twenty lashes.

“This is disgusting,” he hissed.

“Sorry.”

“No, I mean… that she’d do this to you. That she thinks she has the _right_.”

“I’m a servant, Orlo. I barely have any more value than the furniture! Less than a comb, apparently.”

He didn’t laugh.

“You must have had people beaten.”

He stayed silent for a moment, fingers ghosting over your back, gentle enough that you winced, but didn’t cry out.

“No. Not… no-one innocent.”

You let it go. You couldn’t imagine the guilt he harboured over what had Peter made him do in the past. The toll the Emperor’s leadership had on him.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

Painstakingly, Orlo cleaned your injuries, dampening and wringing out bandages with clean water, his dexterous writer’s hands dabbing away the blood, laying the flesh as it belonged. All things considered, you felt sure it would heal. The real punishment would be in tomorrow, and the next days, working in the meantime, knowing Elizabeth wouldn’t hesitate to beat you again if your pain caused you to make a mistake.

He apologised as he reached an especially deep injury, which still had a splinter lodged in. You caught sight of him in the mirror, picking the piece of wood out as gently as he could, blinking away tears. As his cleaning finished, you winced at the pink tint the bowl of water was taking on, as he rinsed away your blood from the bandage material with each dab.

“I need to disinfect it,” he sighed.

“Okay.”

Fuck. You hated this bit.

“I’ll hurt.”

“I am aware.”

Ignoring the bitterness in your tone, his first touch of the stinging alcohol to your back was tender.

Unlike the messy bottle sloshed over your back in the servant’s quarters, “borrowed” from the kitchen and used conservatively, Orlo used fine drinking vodka. You recognised it as the kind Peter drank, and the servants giggled over as they stole acrid sips. There were no dirty rags like the ones used below the palace, Orlo dabbed at your wounds gently with clean bandages, apologising over and over for the sting they inflicted. He gave you a moment as you almost doubled over from pain, clinging to his bed post with whitened knuckles, one of his hands covering your shoulder in sympathy.

When you regained your composure, he neatly plastered your back in clean dressings, finally done.

He rinsed his hands off, wiping them on the remainder of the bandaging fabric carelessly. You could see him out of the corner of your eye, carefully inspecting your back for any injuries he’d missed.

“I’ll have the doctor make you a salve in the morning.”

“Thank you. Really.”

You caught his hand, pulling him to face you, even as he tried to stare past you.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

He smiled sadly, finally meeting your eyes. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers, as they cupped your face.

“I wanted to.”

His gaze was too intense, those deep, intelligent eyes. That beautiful face, which received so much unwarranted abuse from the idiots in court every day. That mind which ran Russia like the conductor of an unruly orchestra by day, and gently taught you, conversed with you, by night. Those hands, which wrote death warrants as fluidly poetry, and guided you across a page, held your hand when you needed them. Fuck, you wanted him so much. To know him better still. To be on an even footing with him, for him to see you as anything other than a pity case.

You had to leave.

The dress would make your back ache, a little less now that you were protected by the bandages, but you hoisted it up anyway, loosely covering your chest. Orlo moved to stop you, fearing you’d knock the dressing, but you stepped away from him.

“Please stay here, don’t go back.” His voice shook as he asked, almost like he was begging.

“I can’t. I don’t get that choice, Orlo.”

“You do. I’ll… sort something out. Just don’t leave.”

He was so sweet, so sincere, pleading for you to do the impossible.

“I’ll be fired if she needs me and I’m absent. Or beaten again. I really can’t stay.”

“I’ll make sure you never have to work for that ungrateful bitch again.”

If only.

“Be serious.”

“Deadly. I am deadly serious. Stay here. I’ll fight for it.”

It was a sweet offer, and with his support, you were sure you could miss a morning of work. Elizabeth might be royalty, but you suspected Orlo pulled the strings far more than he let on.

“Okay. One night.”

“No.”

You stared at him, unbelieving of how unrealistic he was being. He knew you had no money. Had nothing except this position in the palace, only a few keepsakes and another set of clothes to your name. You didn’t have even his scant version of freedom. You knew where you belonged. Down in the dingy servants’ quarters. Out of sight. Away from him.

“You know I have to go back, Orlo.”

“Marry me.”

You weren’t which of you looked more shocked. Orlo reached out for you again, and you dropped one side of your dress to let him take your hand, clasping the fabric to your neck with the other.

“Please, don’t joke.”

“I want you by my side. There’s disruption in court, I can’t protect you any other way.”

“You’ll be stuck with me,” you sighed. “I’m not a lady. I have nothing.”

“You could be a Countess.”

There was no trace of a joke in his eyes, nothing but tears swimming, his _fear_.

“How could you really want me?”

You were almost afraid of the answer. The long nights guilt had pooled in your stomach as you imagined reading in bed with him, exchanging favourite books, sharing meals, sharing fears, for the rest of your lives.

Marriage meant something else, though. He was no Peter. You’d heard it before, in how he spoke of Shakespeare, old love stories in languages you couldn’t speak. He was a hopeless romantic. You’d teased him as such.

Marriage meant more than alliance to him. It meant caring. Devotion. _Love_.

In lieu of an answer, his lips met yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope I tagged this write! This is a new fandom and characterisation is a little tricky, but I adore the show, and I hope you liked the story. Comments & kudos much appreciated.


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